


Ce cheval est nul

by captor_of_mytuna



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captor_of_mytuna/pseuds/captor_of_mytuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Napoleonic Wars France acquires a new horse, and gets help from England along the way</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ce cheval est nul

Francis was a jovial man by nature, kind and compassionate, wouldn't hurt any living creature great or small by choice, but God help him, his horse was driving him insane.

 

"You are useless! Corentin! Useless!" he screeched as he picked dirt and twigs out of his hair, still sprawled in the bush that his horse had thrown him in. His hair was his pride and joy, it was almost waist length, and sun blonde, wavy yet never unkempt; that is until now. He hated this stupid horse, why oh why did fate leave him as the only horse available when he'd gone by the stable master, he was meant to be rejoining his troops stationed in Belgium, which ordinarily to Francis wasn't too much of a hassle, a few days ride and he would be there, but not this time. This time he was soaked through to the bone, he was covered in dirt from countless meetings with the bushes and to top it off he was exceedingly weary, his boss refusing to give him a break between stations. Then again, he was France itself, he should be able to deal with a bit of exhaustion.

 

He picked himself off the rain sodden ground, Corentin huffing slightly and moving away from him as Francis moved towards him. He tried again, moving ever closer as the horse continued to move backwards, neighing indignantly at him. Francis narrowed his eyes, he wasn't in the mood for this.

 

"Come here," he called clicking with his tongue softly and then slightly more loudly as the horse began to draw near to him. He stretched his hand out and the horse brushed against his hand and Francis softly stroked his mane. Before the horse could change his mind, Francis grabbed hold of the saddle, slotted a foot through the stirrup and hoisted himself up onto his back. Corentin was a beautiful horse, if Francis said so himself; his mane was jet black and his body chestnut and he had  a white patch on his nose, but the thing that caught Francis' attention was the fire in his oak coloured eyes. The streak of untameable raw feeling, which honestly was probably why he was thrown off so often. He nudged Corentin in the side with his heel gently to get him to move, clicking his tongue again to coax the horse into movement, pulling gently on the reigns to make him move in the correct direction – preferably towards Belgium, but he wouldn’t argue with anywhere except back towards Paris.

The horse whinnied and shook his head a bit before he walked on, actually heeding Francis’ intentions and moving in the general direction of Belgium. Corentin sped up to a slow trot after a while and then caught Francis by surprise by bypassing canter to gallop.  Francis held on for dear life, his wet hair was whipping him in the face, the rain was still lashing down obscuring his vision greatly and his fingers were so cold he was having trouble holding onto the reigns; this horse was trying to kill him. He was being thrown all over the place, he probably looked ridiculous dressed still in his full uniform, soaked through with his hair sticking to his face and flying behind him with stray leaves poking out of it, mud staining his white breeches, actually mud basically everywhere and to top it off his face wore a comical expression of shock and discomfort.

So of course that would be the time to meet Arthur along the road. The man was haring at quite some speed on his quite functional horse, dressed in military regalia obviously heading to rejoin a battle somewhere, probably where Francis was heading himself. He wouldn’t have noticed Francis had Corentin not chosen that time to stop suddenly, sending Francis tumbling over his head with a shout of alarm, and into another bush. This one was a blackthorn, its thorns dug into his skin and sliced him through the clothing he wore; causing him no short amount of pain.

That was when Francis lost it “you useless horse! You are useless!” He screamed, from the bush, tangled beyond all hope of ever resurfacing.

As Francis struggled to even sit up he heard the sound of another horse coming over towards him and soon after the sound of booted feet hit the earth.

“France is that you?” Francis didn’t reply he was still too busy trying to detangle himself from the bush. “Oh my lord it is!” he started to laugh loudly, but Francis couldn’t see him; his hair was obscuring his vision, if he could just move his arms properly.

“I thought you would have shot first, asked questions later, England. That seems to be your current mentality as of late,” Francis snapped, his temper was short and he was not in the mood to deal with the incessant Englishman.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the man, not that Francis could see him. What was the point of having all that hair if it was harmful to your wellbeing, was what Arthur thought. In reality Arthur could admit that deep down, yes he was jealous of Francis’ hair; then again who wasn’t? “You know I was going to help you out of that bush, but I think I might just leave you there. Good day”

“No! Please don’t leave me here, Arthur I’m sorry!” Francis wailed, flailing amidst the bush struggling to even free his hands. Arthur smirked in triumph as he walked closer to the mass of hair and mud.

“What do you want me to do Francis?” he walked around the man as he spoke. “For I see the only way out of this situation is to cut that mane of yours.”

“What! No! Don’t touch my hair you uncouth monster!”

“Francis it’s the only bloody way! You are stuck! In fact the thorns have caught so far into your hair that even if you were freed you would probably still be wearing half the bush. Who on earth falls into a Blackthorn bush of all things?”

“I didn’t fall! This stupid horse threw me!” He sighed with resignation, “Go on then. Cut it. Try to be neat about it!”

“I will do my best,” Arthur knelt down behind him and grabbed as much hair as he could in his hands, provoking a shriek from the Frenchman, and drew a dagger out from his boot. He quickly cut the hair in his hands, moving on to gather the hair near his face, eliciting curses this time, and repeating the process until Francis was for the most part freed. Arthur sheathed the dagger and moved in front of Francis and proffered a hand. Francis took it and together they managed to get him to his feet, albeit with much pulling and strength.

As the Frenchman dusted himself off Arthur took stock of the damage he’d done to Francis’ hair, he had to take a moment to school his expression into something that didn’t resemble either laughter or horror. The man’s hair was uneven in length, some parts only coming down to his chin, others to his shoulders and there was a patch at the back that came midway down his back. Arthur knew he needed to leave as soon as possible, he began edging away to where the two horses were standing, his own steed seemed ill at ease next to Francis’ horse, and was grateful that his owner seemed to be returning.

“Well Francis, I must be off, it was a pleasure seeing you and all that, but I am needed elsewhere. Goodbye!”

“Wait, perhaps we could ride together? Where are you heading, I am off to Belgium.”

Damn was the only thought that ran through Arthur’s mind. That’s exactly where he was meant to go, but there was no way that he was going to be there when Francis realised what a mess of his hair he’d made. “No, I am sorry my friend, I am off home,” he lied.

“That’s funny, I thought you were going my direction when I spotted you earlier,” Francis pondered, he was quite confused at the almost anxious nature of Arthur’s behaviour. It was only after Arthur had mounted his horse and had basically fled the scene did Francis realise what must have happened. His eyes went wide with panic as he grasped at his hair, realising that it was shorter on one side than it was the other and even longer at the back.  

“When I get my hands on you Arthur you are dead!” his screaming echoed through the land, his rage knowing no bounds.

Francis never forgave Arthur for that transgression, even through the long years to the present day the consuming need for revenge still burned bright within his soul.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been using Duolingo for a while now to improve my language skills (hella) and I came across the phrase "Ce cheval est nul!" which basically means "this horse is useless!" and immediately the thought sprang to my mind "when would this phrase ever be handy?" That was when this was born and I'm so sorry.  
> It's also totes my headcanon that Francis had super beautiful long hair and everyone is jealous of it, but it's literally Francis' pride and joy.


End file.
